Things are bad for Clay Miller and George Hitchens.
For starters, they’re on the run from a posse out for blood. Then, as they ride through the Utah desert, the two come across the crumpled body of a young boy on the brink of death. The boy can’t speak, but it’s clear he’s frightened of something nearby. When asked what’s got him so scared, the terrified boy writes three letters in the dirt ...
DED
By nightfall, Clay and George are tied up in jail. They can’t move. They can’t speak. They can do nothing but listen to the boy, outside, screaming for his life.
Yes, things are bad for Clay and George.
And they’re only going to get worse.
praise for DAVID B. SILVA
“A talented writer of novels and short fiction, who knows where the heart of a story lies, and who deserves a larger audience than he has yet received.”
—Dean Koontz
“David B. Silva is one of the great unsung heroes of horror.”
—Bentley Little
praise for ROBERT SWARTWOOD
“Robert Swartwood is the next F. Paul Wilson—if F. Paul Wilson’s DNA was spliced with Michael Marshall Smith. If you haven’t yet read Swartwood, you’re missing out.”
—Brian Keene
“An exceptional novelist.”
—Douglas Clegg
Contents
Walk the Sky
About the Authors
A Tribute to David B. Silva
Excerpt from At the Meade Bed & Breakfast
Also by David B. Silva
Also by Robert Swartwood
Copyright
This book is dedicated to the memory of David B. Silva
July 11, 1950 — March 12, 2013
WALK THE SKY
There is no death, only a change of worlds.
— NATIVE AMERICAN PROVERB
“Boss?”
“Yeah.”
“I think she’s still alive.”
“Say again?”
“Look at her chest. She’s still breathing.”
“Christ. This is the last ... where are you going?”
“To get the doc.”
“Don’t.”
“Boss?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what? She needs the doc.”
“I know that. But the election ...”
“What about it?”
“It’s coming up soon.”
“So?”
“I don’t think we have much choice here.”
“About what?”
“We need to kill her.”
Utah Desert, 1875
part one
DED
1.
They had been on the run for nearly a week when they found the dead boy.
It was George who spotted him. Clay had to squint and raise a hand to shadow the sun before he could make out the boy—only a faint form up on the hill beneath the shade of a dying tree that was maybe four hundred yards away.
“What do you think?” George asked.
Clay gave it a moment’s thought. “I think we could certainly rest for a bit.”
They had crossed over the Colorado border a day or two before, were now trudging through the Utah desert. They hadn’t seen any men or women since then. They hadn’t encountered any white or Indian towns or settlements. Their supplies were in a very sorry state, and it had been days since either of them had had a proper meal.
As they rode up the hill, Clay glanced back toward the eastern horizon. “Do you think we still have a day on them?”
George grunted. “Only if we’re lucky.”
Now less than thirty yards away from the boy, the horses became spooked. Both men had to tighten their reins and circle back toward the tree and the boy. When it became clear the horses wouldn’t advance any farther, the men dismounted and tied the horses to a tree.
They started toward the boy, but after several paces George stopped and held out a hand.
“Do you hear that?”
Clay cocked an ear. “Hear what?”
“Flies. Doesn’t sound like too many.”
“What are you thinking?”
“The boy hasn’t been dead very long.”
They continued on. Clay expected an ungodly stench—the boy’s decayed body or at least his loosened bowels—but all he could smell was the acrid desert air.
The closer they got to the boy, the slower they walked.
“Can it be?” George whispered.
“What?”
“I think he’s alive.”
Clay squinted down at the boy. They had just reached the shade of the tree but the sun was still high in the sky, blasting down its unforgiving glare. Besides that, George had ten years on Clay—Clay who had just turned forty earlier this year—and the younger man’s eyesight was much better. But still, now that he looked, he saw that yes, the boy’s chest was rising slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to confirm that he was in fact alive.
George extended his boot and nudged the boy’s leg.
The boy did not respond.
George nudged the boy’s leg again, this time with more force.
The boy began to stir. His eyes drifted open and he looked up at Clay and George as if in a dream before his eyes drifted shut ... and then suddenly they opened again and he bolted upright.
“Easy now,” George said, holding out his hands, “we’re not gonna hurt you.”
That, Clay knew, might be hard for the boy to believe considering both men no doubt looked like outlaws: unshaven faces, tired eyes, Winchesters strapped over their shoulders.
“It’s true,” Clay said, trying to bring as much comfort into his voice as he could. “We were just passing by and saw you. We thought ... we thought you were dead.”
He said it good-naturedly, a smile on his face, but at the word the boy stiffened. He glanced out toward the desert, past the trees toward the mountains, then back at them. His entire body had begun to tremble.
“What now?” George whispered.
Clay said, “Offer him some water.”
“We don’t have much left.”
“I think right now he needs it more than us.”
George walked back to the horses, retrieved his canteen, and returned to the tree’s shade. He shifted the canteen back and forth as he unscrewed the cap, letting Clay hear just how little water was left. He knelt, slowly, and extended the canteen to the boy.
The boy didn’t move. He just sat there, staring back at George with fear in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” George said. “Take a sip.”
The boy’s gaze shifted to Clay, then back to George, before he slowly reached out and took the canteen. He placed it to his lips, taking first a sip, then a hungrier swallow.
“Slow down,” George said.
The boy’s Adam apple bobbed up and down.
“That’s enough,” George said, reaching for the canteen, but the boy wouldn’t let go. He tried to pull away. George grabbed hold of the strap and yanked it from the boy. What little water was left in the canteen splattered the ground.
“Shit,” George said as he stood up.
Clay stepped forward and leaned toward the boy. “What’s your name?”
The boy just stared back at him.
“Your name,” Clay said. “What do people call you?”
Still nothing.
Clay tried a different approach. “Where did you come from?”
Again nothing.
George said, “I don’t think he’s right in the head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just look at his face. I think ... I think he was born dumb.”
The hesitation in George’s voice wa
s slight, but it was enough for Clay to catch and to understand.
He studied his friend for a moment—George who was now looking off in the distance—before turning back to the boy.
“My name is Clay. This is George. Those are our names, what people call us. What do people call you?”
The boy kept staring back at him.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” George said.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Just where exactly did he come from?”
“He certainly didn’t drop out of the sky. He had to come from somewhere close.”
“But why is he by himself?”
“Maybe he’s run away.”
“Maybe”—George hesitated again—“maybe somebody abandoned him.”
There was a brief silence. Around them, cicadas trilled.
“Whatever the case may be,” Clay said finally, “the fact that he’s here right now means there must be a town nearby.”
At this the boy stiffened again.
Clay leaned down even closer to the boy. “What? What is it?”
The boy, of course, said nothing.
“Town,” Clay said, and when he saw the flinch in the boy’s face, he asked, “Is there a town nearby?”
The boy made no reaction at first. Then, slowly, he nodded.
George stepped forward. “Where is it? How far?”
The boy pointed off toward the mountains.
“All right,” George said, turning to Clay. “Let’s take him back.”
The boy cried out, making a sound that might have been a distant relative to the word no. It was clear to Clay then that the boy may not be deaf, but he was certainly mute.
“Why not?” Clay asked.
The boy just stared back at him, trembling.
“You don’t want us to take you back into town?”
The boy shook his head.
“Why not?” Clay repeated, thinking that the question was useless, the boy was going to ignore him again.
But the boy leaned forward. He reached out and placed a finger in the dirt. He moved it around until he’d written three crude letters. A misspelling, yes, but the meaning of the word was clear enough:
2.
They stood side by side out of earshot from the boy, staring off toward the mountains.
“My vote?” George said. “I think we should check it out.”
“You saw what he wrote. He wrote dead.”
“He wrote three letters in the dirt. They might not mean what we think they mean.”
“What if they do?”
“Then there’s nothing we can do to change it. But right now we need supplies. Especially water.”
Clay glanced over his shoulder at the boy, who now stood in the shade of the tree, looking scared out of his wits. The boy’s arms were long and thin, his face narrow and painted thick with dirt. His hair was long and brown and looked as if it had been washed in mud. Clay figured the boy was twelve, maybe thirteen years old.
“I don’t like it.”
“You got another idea?”
“Let’s just keep riding. Sooner or later we’ll cross another town.”
“And if we don’t?”
Clay glanced over his shoulder again. “Something made that boy very afraid.”
“Nothing to lose by taking a look. We don’t like what we find, we keep moving. But remember, we need water. What was in that canteen? That was our last.”
They returned to their horses and walked them back to the boy. The horses, though still slightly spooked, were not as obstinate this time.
George mounted his horse and extended his hand to the boy. “You can ride with me.”
The boy’s eyes grew wide. He shook his head and took a step back.
“See?” Clay said. “The kid’s scared.”
George crossed his hands over the horn of his saddle and stared down at the boy. “We’re not going to leave you here. But neither can we stay here. Me and my friend, we need to keep riding for our own sake. But we’ll protect you. I promise you that.”
The boy didn’t move at first. He stared back up at George for several long seconds before regarding Clay. Then, after some thought, the boy made the only choice a man could make under the circumstances: he took George’s hand.
George pulled the boy up onto the back of his horse, made sure he was secure. Then he looked at Clay.
“Ready?”
* * *
The desert could play tricks on you if you weren’t careful. It could make you believe it wasn’t nearly as hot as it felt. It could shimmer with the sight of water that wasn’t really there. It could fool you into thinking the next mountain was just an hour away when it was no closer than a full day’s ride.
It was truthful this time.
They entered the outskirts of town in just under an hour.
The first building they passed was the schoolhouse. It may not have been apparent to the occasional passerby—it certainly wasn’t to George, who rode past the weathered building without giving it so much as a glance—but Clay noticed. After all, he was a schoolteacher. Had been a schoolteacher, he reminded himself, back in his past life. Back before everything had fallen apart.
But Clay didn’t want to think about that. There wasn’t much he could do about it now anyway. Their current situation, however, weighed heavily on his mind.
The boy had written DED in the dirt.
So where were the bodies?
Where was the blood?
If they weren’t dead, where were the townsfolk?
They rode past the Liberty Stables and Blacksmith Services. They rode past the Red Queen Saloon. They rode past the Dover’s Creek Bank. The office of Malcolm Jenkins, M.D. The assayer’s office. Even the jailhouse.
Not a soul in sight.
Not a sound in the air except the whisper of the wind.
George pulled up in front of Goodman’s Mercantile, dismounted, and helped the boy off the back of the horse.
“Where is everybody?” Clay asked.
“Dead, I suppose.” George hitched his horse to the post, nodded at the boy. “Isn’t that what he wrote?”
“Then where are the bodies?”
“We won’t stay more than an hour. We’ll get what we need here and be on our way.”
Clay dismounted, tied his horse to the post, and kept the boy in front of him as they followed George into the mercantile.
With the daylight at their backs it was an easy glance around the place to get a feel for the layout. Wooden display cases formed three aisles. To the left, there were foodstuffs and cooking utensils. Down the middle were racks of clothing, shoes and boots. Down the right were tools and riding gear, leading to the very back of the store where Mr. Goodman sold guns and ammunition.
“Is this a mining town?” Clay asked.
“Not sure. Why?”
“In that crate over there. Isn’t that dynamite?”
George came over and took a peek. “I believe it is. Stay away from it. That stuff can be unpredictable.”
As George drifted toward the foodstuffs, Clay went down the far right aisle looking for canteens. The longer they were going to be traveling through the desert, the more water they would need to carry.
Some five minutes later, Clay had four canteens over one shoulder and was giving close look at a couple of kerosene lanterns. He straightened and stretched, and noticed George at the front register, the counter piled high with beans and jerky, hard cheese and buckwheat. Clay gave the mercantile a once over, and called out to George, “Where’s the boy?”
“Thought he was with you.”
“Was,” Clay said. He drifted out to the middle aisle and gave a long look toward the back of the store, then back to the front. It was odd and more than a little unsettling that the boy had gone and disappeared on them. “Not anymore.”
“Maybe he’s outside.”
Clay came out of the dusty wash of light carrying the four canteens,
and two lanterns. “Now all we need to do is find some water and we’ll be set.”
George nodded. He returned to the counter, loaded a gunnysack with the foodstuffs, and slung it over his shoulder. Before he stepped away, he placed a ten dollar gold piece on the counter.
“Best be on our way,” he said.
They went through the front door of Goodman’s Mercantile, their arms loaded, and made it as far as the edge of the plank walkway before stopping.
The boy hadn’t gone far after all. He stood in the dry, dusty bed of the town’s main street, his hands tied behind his back, looking like a ghost of himself. Next to him was the first of four horses. Sitting on the four horses were four men Clay had never seen before. And in the hands of each of the men was a drawn gun.
The man on the horse next to the boy said, “Ain’t in no rush now, are you?”
3.
The men bound their hands behind their backs and tied dusty kerchiefs in their mouths. Two of the men took their supplies back into the mercantile, and when they returned minutes later one of them was holding up the ten dollar gold piece George had left behind.
“Look what we found,” the man said with a grin.
“Yeah,” said the other one, “they must be tryin’ to pay their way into heaven.”
The fourth man—the one who hadn’t spoken yet—said, “Put it back.”
The first man’s grin faded. “Huh?”
“We have no need for gold, especially when it’s not our own. Put it back where you found it.”
“But—”
“Do it now.”
The man’s shoulders dropped. His eyes lowered. He nodded and turned and hurried back into the mercantile, only to emerge twenty seconds later with a somber look on his face.
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